They call me Scat. They call many of us by that name but it’s most often meant for me. My story began on a farm. Life was good for a time…
Mice are quite tasty when they are small and I was the best at finding them among the hay stacks. Listening and patience…a rustle, wait for it…a squeak, to the left…my tail often tried to give me away as it twitched with anticipation, but not today. Shadows run along the wall. I cannot really see them. My whiskers bristle and point them out. Every single nerve ending in my body is charged with electricity…waiting…listening…locating the nest.
Then with instinct from my fore-felines, the saber toothed equivalent of perfect killing machines, I pounce!
My belly full and spirits high, I had no idea that this day would be my last in the country.
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